A Hopeless Murder Read online

  A Hopeless Murder

  A Hope Walker Mystery Book One

  Daniel Carson

  Copyright © 2018 Daniel Carson

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Daniel Carson Books

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written consent from the publisher and author, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be uploaded without the permission of the publisher and author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is originally published.

  This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, actual events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and names are products of the authors imagination and used fictitiously.

  The publisher and author acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book.

  Cover Design by Alchemy Book Covers

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio

  Editing by Ellen Campbell

  Proofreading by Donna Rich

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Dear Reader: A Note From Daniel Carson

  CHAPTER ONE

  His name was Henry Novak. He was the pipe-smoking, bowtie-wearing editor at the Portland News Gazette.

  And he was about to die.

  “Hope,” he said when his voice came back on the line. “You still there?’

  “Yes, Henry.” The words came out of my mouth like short bursts of gunfire. “Still here. But my story is not.”

  “I know.”

  “Well I sure didn’t. Imagine my surprise. After waking up at o butt thirty and driving across the godforsaken State of Oregon. I just crossed into Idaho and pulled over for a coffee and grabbed the paper so I could enjoy my day… my moment. That’s what you said, Henry.”

  “I know what I said.”

  “You said, ‘Hope, I’ve got it covered. Get out of town. Tomorrow morning, pull over, grab a paper and soak it in’.”

  “‘Soak what in?’ I asked you.”

  “And you said… you said.”

  “I know what I said, Hope.”

  “You said, ‘Soak in the feeling that on this day, you, Hope Walker, are the best darned investigative reporter in America’. I know for a fact that’s what you said because I wrote it in my journal. I wrote ‘Dear Journal, That crusty old mouth-breathing excuse for an editor actually said something nice’. And so, Henry, that’s what I did, five minutes ago. And that’s when I noticed something astonishing.”

  “Hope.”

  “My story isn’t in the newspaper, Henry! The biggest story of my career. Pulitzer, you told me. Pulitzer, Henry. You said this story could win a freaking Pulitzer!”

  “There… was a bit of a problem,” Henry said.

  “Excuse me? Did you just say a bit of a problem? A bit of a problem would be a typo on line twenty. A bit of a problem would be a terrible pun in the headline. Heck, A medium-sized problem would be the story getting moved to page six next to the half page advertisement for male testosterone. But when the story doesn’t run anywhere in the entire freaking paper?”

  “Brinkley called me at 2am.”

  My heart stopped. Dennis Brinkley was the owner of the Gazette.

  He was the best kind of owner. The kind that I never saw. I wouldn’t know what he looked like if I stepped on him.

  “Since when does Brinkley call you in the middle of the night?”

  “When there’s an emergency. Hope, he’d been talking to lawyers.”

  “What is this, his third wife?”

  “He’s not getting divorced! Hope, he’s been talking to lawyers about your story.”

  I suddenly had a very, very bad feeling about this.

  “Why is Dennis Brinkley reading stories before they come out in the paper? He’s an editor all of a sudden?”

  “The story got leaked.”

  “By whom?”

  “Still trying to figure that out. Tommy Medola got his hands on it and met with his lawyers.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  “It gets worse. Much worse. Medola’s lawyers contacted Brinkley. They have a list of items they say the article got wrong.”

  “Of course they would say that, Henry. And do you know why they would say that? Because they are criminals. CRIMINALS. They break the law for a living.”

  “They used a stronger word, Hope. Not just wrong. They said you lied.”

  “I don’t lie.”

  “They said you lied seven times to be exact.”

  I clenched the phone and felt my jaw stiffen. “I never lie.”

  “I know that and you know that. But Brinkley and his lawyers don’t know that.”

  “Jesus, Henry. What good is it having an editor if he doesn’t have your back?”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Under the circumstances, it’s incredibly fair.”

  “Listen, Hope. Normally, I’d tell them all to shove it—”

  “You’d tell Brinkley to shove it?”

  “I’d use a phrase that would be less likely to get me fired with Brinkley. The problem is, Medola’s got proof.”

  “Of what?”

  “Aren’t you listening, Hope? He’s got proof that you lied.”

  “That is the biggest pile of horse crap I have ever heard in my life. What proof do they say they have?”

  The line went quiet, except for the little slurping sound that Henry did from time to time. I’d noticed it first when we were playing five-card stud one night in a money game at the office. The little slurping sound was his tell. He was nervous. He was hiding something.

  “What kind of proof, Henry?” I demanded.

  “I haven’t… exactly… uh… seen it.”

  And that’s when I lost my mind for the first time that morning.

  I generally consider myself a dignified young woman. I’m not sure anybody else does. But, on the occasions I lose my temper, my education and its impact on my language shines through.

  You see, I was raised and educated by a woman nobody would ever call dignified. And for good reason. Had a truck driver and a sailor spawned, the result would have been my granny. And, I’m sorry to say, her language probably would have made both of them blush.

  And so, while standing outside the Piggly Poo Gas Station on the Oregon-Idaho border, I let loose a string of curse words that, had she been able to hear me, almost certainly would have made Granny proud. But that pride did not extend to the young mother just getting out of a blue Honda minivan with her seven-year-old daughter. The look on
her face was indisputably one of complete and utter horror. She covered her daughter’s ears and all but dragged her to the safety of the Piggly Poo.

  Before I finally ran out of breath, I was able to utter the only words of the entire filthy run-on sentence that wouldn’t get you arrested in Utah. “But, Henry, if you haven’t seen any proof, then why are we even talking about this?”

  “Because Dennis Brinkley owns the paper and he and his lawyers think whatever this proof is, is enough.”

  I ground my teeth. “You’re saying I have to make changes before you’ll run my story?”

  There was a pause so long and uncomfortable it made typical long, uncomfortable pauses feel downright diminutive, and I suddenly felt nostalgic for Henry’s disgusting slurping tell.

  “Hope,” he said finally. “The article is dead. It’s not going to run.”

  And I lost my mind for the second time that morning.

  “Henry Novak,” I said, trying to control my breathing. “I have six months into this story. This is the best piece of investigative journalism I have ever done, and it’s the best story to come out of your lousy paper in… well, maybe ever.”

  “Medola said this article will ruin him.”

  “If we’re lucky. Am I the only one who understands the concept? Medola is a criminal. As in, the bad guy. We’re the good guys.”

  “Hope, he’s threatening to file a hundred-million-dollar lawsuit if it runs. Brinkley’s lawyers are scared to death and now Brinkley is too.”

  “Oh, come on, Henry! Free speech and a free press are the cornerstones of democracy. If we let thugs like Medola chase us off a story, then we might as well be living in Putin’s Russia.”

  “I’m sorry, Hope. Brinkley is adamant. He said that neither he nor the News Gazette can take on that kind of risk. He told me we can’t under any circumstances run this article.”

  “Henry. Please tell me you’ve got a camera crew following me. This is all some kind of elaborate practical joke to get me back for the time I put laxatives in your wine at the Christmas party.”

  “This is no joke. I’m not kidding. And, Hope, neither is Brinkley.”

  “Henry Novak, you taught me everything I know. It was you who taught me to stand up to the Tommy Medolas of the world and now you’re telling me to sit on a story. To just shove it in a drawer.”

  “No, Hope, that’s not exactly what I’m saying. It’s actually worse than that.”

  “How could it possibly be worse than that?”

  I was treated to a dizzying combination of silence and slurping until finally, by some miracle, the words came out.

  “Brinkley believes your presence at the Portland News Gazette creates a risk that his business can’t tolerate so, Hope, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but…

  “Henry Novak, don’t do this. Don’t you dare do this.”

  “I’m sorry, Hope. But you’re fired.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  After that, the conversation took what most people would consider a bit of a turn.

  Henry kept telling me that he was sorry. And I kept screaming into the phone about all the different things my now former editor could do to himself. It eventually reached a stalemate and Henry decided that in addition to terminating me, it was time to terminate the call.

  At that point, I said something vaguely similar to God Bless Yourself and noticed that the young mother was back. And unfortunately, this time she was not covering her little girl’s ears. If you’d seen their faces you would have thought I’d just kicked a litter of puppies. The woman reversed her minivan with a short squeal—a little too passive aggressive for my taste—and then she and little miss pigtails gave me one last mad face to cement their shared outrage. I thought very seriously about throwing my smartphone at them and their preciously perfect minivan. But this was my third phone in as many months and I didn’t think my carrier would buy another “accident”. So I did the next best thing, a flying karate kick. I thought it would make me feel better. But when I tripped and fell flat on my face right there in front of the Piggly Poo, I definitely didn’t feel better.

  I felt like a dork.

  I sat there in the gravel next to a half-smoked cigarette and a fully-emptied bottle of vodka.

  There I was. Hope Walker. A dork.

  A very, very jobless dork.

  I thought about going in, buying a mongo-sized bag of Cheetos and a Triple Gulp Mountain Dew and drowning my sorrows.

  I was in a sort of stunned bewilderment for what felt like a very long time. My thoughts bounced back and forth between the defeat I’d been handed by that spineless hack artist Henry and convincing myself highly processed saturated fat and high fructose corn syrup were exactly what my life needed at the moment.

  And then, out of nowhere a third thought appeared and I remembered why I was on the road in the first place. Why I’d spent the previous night in a dive motel in central Oregon and why I’d gotten up at o butt thirty to drive across Oregon and suffer my great indignity under the watchful denizens of the Piggly Poo.

  I had a funeral to attend.

  And if I didn’t hurry, I was going to be late.

  I picked up whatever was left of my dignity, got in my car, and drove south, deep into the heart of western Idaho. Even after all this time, it was a path I knew well. But my career path? That was another story. I seemed to go through all the stages of grief in less than an hour and after I lost my mind for yet another time that morning, I took a deep breath and had a clear and reasonable thought. Just a few hours earlier, I had a job. A very good job. Surely another paper would be looking for an investigative reporter. After that, the car practically drove itself through Boise and then east towards the forests and mountains. I called every newspaper that I could think of in the great Northwest. And without fail, everyone said the exact same thing.

  “You’re the investigative journalist from the Portland News Gazette?”

  “That’s right, Hope Walker.”

  “Yeah. Sorry, we’re not interested.”

  If our country could innovate as quickly as I’d just been blackballed from the newspaper business, we’d be driving flying cars to Mars within the month.

  After the sixth newspaper gave me the exact same response, I found the very next gas station, bought the biggest bag of Cheetos I could and ordered a Mountain Dew that came in a 13-gallon trash can. I spent the next twenty miles eating and drinking every ounce of it and then every mile after that regretting every single bite of cheesy goodness.

  By the time I reached central Idaho I felt like I needed several cold beers and an extremely hot shower. A hot guy wouldn’t be so bad either. Even better if he was really dumb. Who was I kidding? Hot guys hadn’t been on my menu for a very, very long time. Besides I was a dork at the moment. A jobless dork with Cheeto dust rimming my lips and a bladder full of carbonated sugar water.

  A hot guy probably wasn’t in the cards. A blind guy, maybe.

  I stopped at yet another gas station. I thought the Piggly Poo was a charmer, but Ron’s House of Gas and Donuts would probably put up a pretty stiff challenge in any competition for the world’s least hygienic gas station. I splashed slightly viscous water on my face and tried to do something with my hair. When I got back on the road, I decided enough was enough, and racked my brain for a distraction. As a mental challenge, I even tried to remember the phone number I’d seen on that bathroom wall next to the words “Call Rick for a good time”. Call it bathroom Sudoku. I spent a good fifteen minutes on that when I realized what I was doing and poured half a water bottle on my face.

  “Get a grip,” I said to the rearview mirror. Then with as much self-loathing as I could muster: “You’re probably not even good enough for Rick.”

  I would have continued my excursion along the Pity Promenade, but something got in my way.

  The Mountains.

  My mountains.

  The Sawtooth Mountains had always gotten in my way. Growing up in a small town in Idaho was often
times suffocating. And the Mountains played their own complicated role. They seemed like a fortress, trying to keep me in.

  I’d finally escaped their grasp and left my hometown. I swore when I got to the big city I’d never look back, but at night the mountains haunted my dreams.

  Portland was an amazing city.

  It had great coffee, great culture, and less rain and fewer weirdoes than you think.

  Okay, it’s got tons of rain and weirdoes, but it’s such a cool city that nobody seems to care. Portland even had Mt Hood an hour away. And Mt Hood was one beautiful snowcapped mountain.

  But it wasn’t my mountain.

  And Portland didn’t have my Granny.

  Ever since I’d hit Western Idaho, feelings and memories started flowing back. But it wasn’t until I’d reached the mountains that it felt tangible and real.

  And then, just like always, the forest swallowed me up. The last ten miles, the forest gets so thick that you can’t see the mountains anymore. It’s like falling down a tunnel. A very woodsy tunnel.

  And I was no longer thinking about my pathetic life and crumbling career prospects. I was thinking about Granny and the real reason I was coming back to my hometown for the first time in forever. Then the trees thinned suddenly and like some incredible magic trick, the Sawtooth Mountains reappeared.

  And I said the same thing I always did.

  Wow.

  My eyes found the small town nestled at their feet. And the wooden sign that had greeted travelers from time immemorial.

  A carved wooden sign with a message both simple and foreboding.

  Welcome to Hopeless.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Hopeless, Idaho, population 2,228. I hadn’t been here in years and as soon as I pulled onto Main Street, it felt like I’d never left.

  And not in a good way. Like an ugly Christmas sweater, my hometown was equal parts weird, charming, comfortable, and likely to give you a rash.

  I started to itch immediately.

  To my left was the Hopeless Sheriff’s office. The sign out front said: Sheriff Ed Kline Welcomes You.